On Solitude
by Kate Higgins
Summary: Post-Grave; Giles and Anya are lonely together.


**"On Solitude"**

by Katharine   
Rating: PG-13   
Summary: Giles and Anya are lonely together.   
Disclaimer: Property of Joss Whedon, Mutant Enemy et al.   
Improv #45: cinnamon -- dust -- leather -- sway   
Notes: Set mid Season 7 BtVS, assuming that Giles has left for England again [which, for the record, I hope he doesn't...]. Written prior to the beginning of said season.   
Special thanks to my beta, Wesleysgirl.   
Distribution: Want, take, have. Let me know where it went.   
Feedback: Call me, Tony. Everyone else- feedback would be lovely.  


* * *

The hollow ring of a lonely bell echoed through the small apartment, piercing the silence. Giles looked up from the novel. The microwave had ceased its humming and whirring, and was now requesting that he enjoy his meal. He sighed, tossed the worn, dog-earred book onto the pile that was fast accumulating on and around the scratched coffee table, and shuffled into the kitchen. For the hundredth time, he mentally made a note to tear the revolting, seventies-design paper from the walls at the first available opportunity, and to scrape the layers of dust from the ancient gas oven as soon as he had purchased some industrial strength cleaner. 

Having inhabited the flat for almost six months now, these small tasks were seeming increasingly unlikely to be completed. 

He assured himself constantly that this was a temporary arrangement. This reasoning was, perhaps, the very thing that prevented him from redecorating. He had no intention of staying. Repainting the apartment would be akin to admitting that he had nowhere else to go. Could afford nothing better than what was little more than three rented rooms in a decaying block of flats. Ironically, the situation of the building was excellent. It had been part of a government housing project in the sixties, wherein a great many ugly, box-like houses were erected next door to beautiful, expensive Victorian properties, on the pretext of 'combating overpopulation'. This particular apartment was conveniently placed, in a 'good' area, with an excellent view of the Thames. And it carried an aura so depressing that Giles wasn't sure how much longer he could possibly stand it. 

He removed the plastic tray from the microwave, and peeled back the film, only burning his fingers a little. The box had said 'lamb curry' - it was more reminiscent of demon entrails than anything vaguely edible. He grimaced, and tipped the mixture onto a chipped china plate - one of the few not only intact, but relatively clean. 

Armed with a fork, he carried his food back to the living room, and sat on the faded old sofa. Picking up his book, he settled down to read again, finding comfort in the words, caressing the worn leather spine. He was aware that the contents of the dish were gradually getting cold. It didn't bother him. It just meant that he could throw it away. Reaching for the coffee table, he picked up the bottle of substandard gin, and poured himself another large glass. That seemed to be where the money was going these days. What little money he had left. Booze and books. Cheap alcohol, and second hand novels. Life was miserable. 

Refusing to wallow in despair - he'd already had months to do that - he put the plate to one side, and lost himself instead in the novel. 

Seconds ticked by. Minutes. Hours, punctuated only by the distant chimes of St Steven's, and the need to switch on the solitary lamp. Pages, chapters. One book, another. His eyelids feeling heavier and heavier, until finally, like every other night, he drifted into a disturbed sleep. 

* * *

"Giles?" 

With his eyes still closed, he frowned. He was imagining things; the result of months of solitude. No-one knew he was here. Buffy had a telephone number, but no address. Neither Buffy, nor any of her friends, could afford to fly to England on a whim. He no longer knew anyone in the city who would even consider coming calling. Blackballed as he was by the Council, he was a dangerous man to be associated with. 

"Giles!" The voice persisted. "Stop sleeping!" 

A hand rested on his shoulder, and shook him none too gently. 

He blinked, blearily trying to place the voice. Sitting up, he gazed at her for a second. 

"Anya?" 

She nodded impatiently. 

"What are you... how did..." He flinched under her withering stare. "...how are you?" 

"Like you even care." 

Giles could do nothing but stare as she paced around the room. 

"God, Giles, you've really let your standards drop. I've seen nicer caves. It's all... dark, and dirty, and depressing." She tripped over a book. "Now **that's** just a hazard." 

"... what do you - of course I care about you, Anya," he protested. 

She snorted in derision. "I don't think I believe you. I don't know what to believe any more! I... we, needed you. Everything fell apart, and when it was almost fixed, you left! Again! And we... *I* miss you." She threw herself onto the couch to sit next to him. 

"It has been a while, hasn't it?" he said. 

She nodded sadly. "More than six months." 

"You could have visited. Any time." 

"I've been busy. You know, with the vengeance. And justice. Plus, it wasn't like you left a forwarding address. I had to hunt you down. Do you have any idea how many different herbs you need to do a cross-continental location charm?" 

"Eighteen, and three different roots." He sighed. "I've missed you, too." 

She glared at him. "And you couldn't have phoned? Just to say, 'hello, Anya, how's the money? Has your heart mended itself yet? Maim anyone recently?'" 

"I didn't have your number." 

"I thought the expression was 'two wrongs don't make a right'. At least I made the effort to find you." 

They sat in silence for a moment, lost for things to say to one another, staring at the rotting wallpaper. "You scorched my carpet," Giles observed. 

"Believe me, it's an improvement." 

He smiled. 

"Besides, you broke my shop. Did you know that all builders are thieves?" 

"I'm surprised you didn't use Xander's guilt to your advantage." 

"Who said I didn't?" she asked, puzzled. "His stupid friends tried to smoke some of my herbs." 

"I've heard that ragwort makes an excellent tobacco substitute." 

"No, that's rabbit tobacco. I don't stock it. Ragwort is useful for protection spells, fairy circles, wasting disease." 

"Naturally one for the medicine cabinet." 

"I think the carpenters would find speedwell more useful. At least, until the rash goes down... I miss this." 

"The, the friendly banter?" 

"The talking." She looked up at him. "Giles, they all hate me. They think I'm evil, one of those things that Buffy's supposed to kill." 

"Aren't you?" 

She sighed in agitation. 

"I used to be. Men used to tremble at the mention of my name. I could walk into a room, and it would go silent with awe. Now - now, I'm a terrible demon. It's all that moron Xander Harris's fault! He made me all... disgustingly human! And I hate it! I hate it, Giles! I'm so alone. All the other demons talk about me, behind my back. I'm the laughing stock of Arashmahar. Apparently, mortality infected me, like a disease." She rolled her eyes. 

"And they're afraid it might be contagious?" 

She shrugged. "Last time I was a demon, I did some spectacular things. My punishments were inspired, almost art. Then, all *that* happened." Another pause. 

"We've all done things we're not proud of, but we..." 

"I did horrible things. Worse than horrible. I even almost killed you." 

He frowned. "Anya, none of that had anything to do with you. It was Willow, and, and mind control. You can't hold yourself responsible for-" 

"No, I mean literally, myself. When I was a demon, before all that. Cordelia made a wish, and you fixed it. Like you always fix everything. Only, I tried to stop you, and nearly strangled you until you were dead. To stop you making me mortal. I wanted to kill you. Even after I'd lost my powers." 

"Ah." 

"I don't regret it. I don't regret anything. That's the worst thing of all. I want to, but I can't. So I guess that does make me evil." 

"Or very conflicted." 

"That too," she said. "You're a good listener. Usually, men only listen when they want sex. And that's only pretend listening." 

Giles smiled, raising an eyebrow. "How do you know that's not what I want?" 

She smirked at him. "You usually stammer more when I mention intercourse. Anyway, you're too noble and gentleman-like for that. Not that I'd object - did you know there are no attractive male vengeance demons?" 

"No, that's new information to me, I must say." He smiled a little. 

She shuddered. "They're revolting. All slime and ridges. Human men are so much more interesting." 

Giles studied her face. "Anya, why are you here? Why now, rather than a few months ago?" 

She paused. "I thought you'd be happy to see me!" she pouted. 

He raised an eyebrow. 

"I just thought that... that maybe there's someone else who's just as lonely as I am. And that maybe we could help each other." 

His lips twisted into something like a smile, yet more ironic. "Oh, I'm not lonely." 

"How many books have you read in the last few days, Giles?" 

"...I'm utterly isolated." 

She nodded. "Then why did you leave?" 

"Why did you decide to become a demon again?" 

"D'Hoffryn was so nice to me, and after everything, it seemed like the only thing I could... oh." She stopped, and inhaled sharply. "I hate it when you do that! Do you always make people answer their own questions? Because, it's very irritating. And please remove that disgusting mess." 

He stood up, rubbed any remnant of sleep from his eyes, and removed the offending plate of congealed curry. 

Having cleaned the plate, he stood at the kitchen sink, one hand supporting his weight, the other rubbing at the stubble on his jaw. Leaning forward, he picked at a piece of wallpaper that had nearly peeled away from the concrete blocks beneath it. Focusing on such superficial details took his mind from the situation in hand. He had finally found a creature as forlorn as himself. The revelation, far from being consoling, only caused him further grief. 

Walking back into the main room, he frowned, before noticing her crouched behind the sofa, peering into a disintegrating cardboard box. When she heard him, she sat up, a record in her hand. 

"I want to dance." 

"You... dear lord, woman, you are quite the enigma." 

"An appealing enigma. With nice shoes, and very good taste in music, although maybe not in men." 

"Well, yes, I- I don't-" he spluttered. 

"I want to dance. No-one will dance with me any more. Xander used to, but his dancing was strange and awkward. I want to tango." 

"T- tango?" He looked more closely at the vinyl. Piazzolla. He'd forgotten that he'd even bought that. Then again, he'd forgotten quite a period of the seventies. 

"Yes. Do you not know how?" 

"Of course I-" 

"Good. If I can't have lust, I'd like to do the dance of lust." 

Giles felt positively blindsided. "How do you know how to-" 

She raised an eyebrow. 

"I'm at least twenty-two times your age. However fun the slaughter and mayhem were - and they really were..." her face clouded with a nostalgic haze, "...they didn't last all that long. I had to keep myself occupied somehow, in between. And those brothels in Argentina... always good for business. Helps if you can blend in with the natives - and the dance itself is quite carnal, which is highly enjoyable. It's my favourite." 

She wiped the grime from the top of the turntable that had been in the top of the box, and placed the record on it. Giles watched in dismay as she lowered the needle to its surface, proving that the thing still worked. She pulled the couch back against the wall, and brushed off her skirt. 

Walking over to where he was standing, Anya grabbed his hand, and firmly placed it on her waist. 

"Dance with me," she demanded. He gulped. 

"Anya, I'm not sure that this is the best of ideas. The tango is a rather... intimate, dance, and I'm not sure that it's altogether suitable for us to..." 

"Were you not listening? I know all that. You're just repeating what I already said! Would it make you feel better if I looked all old and wrinkly? I could do that. Shapeshifting is one of the perks of the job, very handy when an angry mob is after you because you made their leader hang himself with his own - this is one of those times where I should stop speaking before people start being elsewhere." 

Giles smiled. "You're perfect just the way you are." 

She caught his hand as he tried to remove it from her waist. 

"Then why won't you dance? You don't find me repulsive, we're both attractive and nicely shaped, and lonely. I think this is a perfect solution, and it didn't even take as much planning as solutions usually should." 

"There are simpler ways to seek solace than through latin dance." 

"Yes, sex. I've tried that. It didn't work. Well, not really. It just caused more trouble. For now, I want to dance." 

He hesitated. "All right, then. It's been a long time since I-" 

"Pfft. Do you think I got any real practice with Mr Duck-Feet? Xander had his uses, but his dancing wasn't satisfactory. I never complained, though, because he was very good with his..." 

Giles could only think of one way to save what little sanity he was left with. He took her right hand, and began to rather rigidly move in time with the music. 

"One-and two-and three, four, wait..." he muttered under his breath, attempting to restore his memory of the pattern. 

"Hey! Stepping on your partner's new sandals is not part of the dance!" 

"I'm sorry, *dear*," he said through clenched teeth. "It would help if you weren't so tense." 

After a few minutes of awkward fumbling, each had adapted to the other1s rhythm, relaxing, allowing the melody to dictate their movement, attempting more exotic steps. The music filled the room, bouncing from the walls, whilst the pair danced in the small space. Step, step, step-together, dip... pressed close together, absorbed in the hypnotic pulse of the drum, and in each other. Clinging for survival, bodies swaying in time with the beat. Step, step, step-together, swivel... they danced for what seemed hours, slowly, sensually, the dance acting not only as an escape, but as an intoxicant. 

Giles supported her body as he pushed her into another dip - this time, however, they broke from the pattern of the tango, and simply stayed still. Breathing heavily, faces flushed, bodies pressed together, mouths close but not quite touching, moving closer still... the clicking of the turntable broke them from their reverie. 

He pulled her up from the dip, but made no move to remove himself from her embrace. She gulped. 

"That... wasn't so horrible, was it?" 

Giles slowly shook his head. "No... not at all." He felt her fingers trembling against his upper arm. "You dance wonderfully, Anya." 

"For someone so young, your efforts were also pleasing." He pulled back a little, and noticed her eyes were shining more brightly than usual. A single tear ran down her cheek. Alarmed, he raised a hand and gently traced the track with his thumb. 

"I'm so sick of crying..." she murmured, looking down. He took her face in his hand, and raised it to force her to meet his eyes. "Giles, I don't want to leave. Everyone's always leaving, and I don't want to be the one to do that." 

"Then don't. Stay. Here, with me." 

Anya frowned. "Was that a joke? I find British humour strange and confusing. You're not supposed to make jokes when someone else is upset. It's not very nice." 

"Anya, I'm not joking. Not in the slightest." Giles attempted to a smile. "I may be losing my mind, but I would never suggest anything so serious in jest." 

"You and me? That's a new plan." 

"Us, together. If we're both so damned miserable, why not make a go of life, and not worry that others might not approve? We could... buy a shop, run a business here. We could be happy." 

She laughed drily. "Oh, because I haven't heard that before. You know what I've learned about love, Giles? It sucks. It makes you feel all warm and gooey, and then it pulls your heart out through your throat! No wonder I have so much business!" 

"...love?" Giles asked quietly. 'I didn't say... oh, sod it, Anya. If I don't love you now, I think I very easily could. You're an astonishing young woman - and if you were only willing to put up with a jaded man like me..." he stopped as her face fell, voice failing him. "...But you won't let yourself, will you?" 

"I can't. Fall. Not again. Not now." She let her face take on its demonic form. "Demons don't love." 

"There are ways we can fix that..." he said, as he traced a line down her neck to stop at the chain of her pendant. 

She looked at him carefully, and raised her own hand to her throat to rest with his, her features twisting until her human visage remained. "...No. I can't... I don't know. I'm afraid-" 

Before he could further reason with her, a heady, spicy scent filled the room, a little like a mixture of cinnamon and ginger. 

"D'Hoffryn." She said the name with such finality that Giles suddenly understood perfectly. Giles pulled her into a tight embrace, running his hand through her hair. 

"We may dance with the devil... but it's always to his tune." 

Anya swallowed, regaining her composure with some difficulty. She stepped away from him. 

"You have to give me time to think about this. I'm not some decision making machine!" 

"I'm here," he said. 

"I know." 

Stepping towards him, she quickly pressed her lips against his. Thrown for a loop once more, he had no time to even collect his thoughts before he found himself alone once more. 

The scent of exotic spices hung in the stale air, settling alongside the lingering essence of the tango. 

Giles did the only thing he could think to do. He placed the needle at the outside of the spinning record, poured himself another glass, and sat. Waited. 

Waited for her to come back to him. 

And somehow, he knew that she would.   


**FIN**


End file.
